How Does That Make You Feel?
by sameoldsinead
Summary: Charles is a therapist, owner of the most prestigious mental institution in the world. Erik is a charged criminal, admitted into his clinic on the grounds of insanity. Erik is after a mysterious man named Sebastian Shaw. Charles loves to help people. AU
1. Xavier's Institution

_This popped in my head a while back and I thought it had the potential to be really funny. But as I typed out this first chapter I had even more ideas and I just kind of rolled with it; so it also has action, adventure, some angst, and, of course, romance. _

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><p>"Professor Xavier, you're new patient is ready to meet you now."<p>

A young blonde stood at his door, dressed in a sleek black turtleneck and grey pencil skirt with high-heeled boots traveling all the way up to her knee. It was _so_ breaking the dress code of the establishment that it wasn't even funny, but being the sister of the owner of said establishment came with certain… _perks._

"Yes, thank you Raven. And please, don't call me that. I'm Charles to you everywhere else, I'm Charles to you here," the brunette man in the expensive-looking suit rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

Raven smirked and muttered a brief, _"Yessir," _before she playfully darted out the door again.

"_Raven! _Is it _really_ so _hard_ to muster up some _respect?" _he yelled after her, half-exasperated and half-amused.

But she didn't hear him, she had already run off to collect his patient. The waiting room was a while off, all the way down the hallway. Slightly inconvenient, but it wasn't often that a patient needed to come to _his _room. Only the truly hopeless cases ever entered his office, unless he requested them specifically. Which was more frequent than imagined, since Xavier truly loved to help people, much to the scoffing of Raven. Unfortunately, this case was _not _the latter.

As he waited for his new patient, Charles Xavier shuffled around his room, organizing papers, straightening his name plate on his desk, anything to make the room look more presentable. He sighed, wondering what kind of disarray the mind that he was about to meet would be in. The last patient he had was utterly convinced he was a vampire, thanks to that damn _Twilight_ fan base, and at one point had actually attacked Charles to attempt to suck his blood. One patient believed he was the Messiah, and claimed he was sent to earth to slaughter the Devil once and for all-which he later decided was Charles. One of his favorite stories to tell was about a woman with an irrational fear of bananas, and there was another who was having an illicit love affair with her pet dog. (That one he didn't like to get into too much.) Yes, Charles met the strangest array of people at his job.

He expected this one wouldn't be any different. Of course, he understood all his patients. It wasn't like he could help it. He had an uncanny way of deciphering people's feelings and always being able to relate to them, no matter how bizarre their situations were. Some people called it a gift, some people called it witchcraft. But whatever it was, it was what had made him such a prodigious therapist.

So when his new patient finally did arrive, kicking and screaming, demanding to be left alone and claiming he was fine, with Raven struggling to hold him down along with all the assistants she could recruit-Sean, Hank, and Alex of _all people-_tugging him along, pleading with him to calm down and everything was going to be all right, he was not surprised in the slightest.

"Erik, I believe?" Charles asked patiently and that seemed to calm the patient down a bit, who stilled slightly at sound of his name.

"How did you know my name?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

_Paranoia_, Charles noted.

He waved his clipboard in the air so that his patient could get a brief glimpse of it. "It's this wonderful new invention that is capable of storing and receiving information readily. Quite remarkable, really. And it also tells me your last name is _Lehnsherr_. A German name, am I correct? Are you familiar with the language? I've always found it quite beautiful and enticing."

"_Fick dich_."

"Nice try, but I caught that. I happen to speak it a bit of it myself. Fragments, really, hardly much at all. But next time you plan on saying something vulgar, please, I'd advise you say it to one of my co-workers here who barely even speak the English language."

There was a slight protest of, _"Hey!" _from the party of four that was currently holding Erik captive, and that small moment of weakness was all the time he needed to elbow the redhead with the blank expression in the nose and tear his arms away from the other three as they reached for the unfortunate victim, who tumbled into the coffee table. He dashed to the door at full speed, but someone had already shut the door and effectively locked it from the outside, and he swore loudly, in German again, and banged on it viciously but the hands were already on him again, dragging him back in, and he elbowed in all different directions, but they were expecting it this time and they threatened to put him in a straight jacket if he kept this up so he sat down, _half_ compliantly.

"Good, now that we're settled, may we begin?" Charles asked in a clash of friendly and icy.

And now that the adrenaline rush was over, the labor group collapsed in their spots onto the floor, a medley of , "I don't get paid enough for this," and, "That's it, I'm sending in my two weeks' notice…" and the redhead, Sean, clutched his now-bleeding nose and exclaimed, "Why is it _always_ me?"

Charles was not in the mood for beating around the bush today, and evidently neither was Erik. Charles did not coddle his patients, as many therapists did. He was often blunt and to-the-point, alarmingly so, and although his methods were extremely unorthodox, they seemed to produce results. He had single-handedly cured more people of mental illness than every mental doctor in the entire state of New York collectively. So whatever he did, he was left to it without question and all the other therapists in the country could just cry themselves to sleep.

These unorthodox methods often proved to bring out the worst before they brought forth any results. And by "bringing out the worst," it meant, "driving his patients absolutely berserk and bat-shit insane." Where other therapists would cower in fear at some of the reactions Charles got from his patients, he hardly ever even flinched. It was almost as if he just _knew_ they weren't going to hurt him.

Erik glared at him menacingly, not saying a word, and Charles circled around him in fascination. He just nodded and made "Hmm," noises and jotted notes down on that goddamn clipboard and didn't say anything for a good 5 minutes: just staring and evaluating. Erik began to squirm, his knuckles turning white as he clutched his knees.

"_Excuse me?"_

"Hmm?" Charles asked distractedly.

"Aren't we supposed to be… talking about our feelings or something?"

Charles head shot up from the clipboard, smiling brightly.

"Do you want to?"

"No."

"Then why did you even ask?"

Erik glared at him, "Isn't that what _normal_ shrinks do?"

Charles threw his head back and laughed, and Erik wondered what he said that was so damn funny.

"Oh, my Erik," he wiped a hypothetical tear from his eyes and Erik felt his rage burn up inside him at being called '_My Erik_.' "Don't think of me as a shrink. Think of me as a… _lifestyle instructor_."

Erik rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

"And to answer your question," Charles continued. "I suppose that _is_ what normal therapists do. But, lucky for you, I'm no ordinary therapist."

Erik wasn't following. And Charles didn't appear to be willing to take him by the hand and explain it to him step-by-step, either. Instead, he opted to walk back to his comfortable-looking chair and place his clipboard neatly on his desk. And by neatly, Erik noted that it was actually _impeccably _neat; he took at least five minutes to align it perfectly with his other stacks of paper that were organized _alphabetically _around his desk.

_OCD freak_, Erik scoffed silently. _And I'm the one who needs a shrink?_

Charles coughed irately and maybe it was just his imagination, but while Charles began to talk again, he seemed to almost purposefully knock it slightly out of place as he stood up to pace the room.

"So, Erik, according to my files, you've been admitted into this mental institution by the criminal justice system. It says here that you, 'attempted the life of a certain Sebastian Shaw, who he claims to have been the perpetrator of a series of crimes committed eighteen years ago, which includes but is not limited to the murder of his mother, by the name of Edi Lehnsherr, and his kidnapping, of four years…'"

"It was him," Erik stated grimly, not taking his eyes off of the off-centered clipboard on the desk.

Charles sighed, "Erik, it also says the real criminal was caught 10 years ago, and sent to prison. It was a young woman by the name of Emma Frost. She is still being held there today."

"So?"

"It says here that you _confirmed it was her _with your own eyes."

"I was tricked!" Erik exclaimed.

"Erik, even if what you're saying makes any sense, which it doesn't to me at the moment, why didn't you just tell the system they had the wrong person? Or even more baffling, why would you wait _eight years _until you made your move?"

"I wouldn't expect _you _to understand," Erik spat.

"I don't expect you to _like _me," Charles corrected, equally acidic. "But I _do_ expect you to trust me, that I won't ever tell anyone anything you say, and that I _will_ understand you wherever you're coming from. I've had worse patients before, I can handle anything you tell me."

Erik twitched reflexively, as if he was fighting against the urge to take Charles' advice… fighting against the natural human tendency to _trust_.

But Charles could see straight through his exterior enough to know that he really wanted to believe what he was saying.

And if he delved a little deeper, read into those cold eyes carefully, he could still see a hint of well-disguised fear that had been drilled into him by years of torment, the torment presumably inflicted upon him by the death of his mother and his subsequent kidnapping. He could sense the loss of innocence, the maturing at far too young an age, and the absolute desperation he felt. He felt helpless, useless, vulnerable. And at the same time he felt dangerous, lethal, terrifying. He thought he was a monster. Erik's surroundings practically flickered with images of his past, old shadows of his memories, haunting him at every step, mocking him, driving him slowly insane…

"_Hello?"_

And Erik brought him back to reality, staring at him pointedly, waiting for him to respond.

"Ah, yes, well then…" Charles inhaled sharply, the rush of adrenaline running through his veins at the possible difficulty of this new task he'd been given. He would welcome it with open arms; he did always love a good challenge.

"I will help you, Erik. We can get through this together, but only if you're willing. I can _help _you," he accentuated the 'help,' and even raised his eyebrows, tilting his head towards the other man, dearly hoping he would get the hint. "I can _help_ you."

It wouldn't be easy, and that's what made it alluring. Charles loved to help people in whatever way possible, and if this is what Erik's recovery entailed, then so be it.

No, Charles was no ordinary therapist at all, and Erik was about to find that out. He was far from ordinary-and he supposed he had genetics and years of exposure to radiation to thank for that.

He was, in fact, a telepathic therapist, and that made him better than the best. That actually made him quite capable of doing whatever the hell he wanted, and what he wanted the most was to help mutants such as himself find a place to belong and to be happy. That's precisely why about ninety-nine percent of his staff were mutants, that's exactly why over eighty percent of his patients were mutants, and that's _definitely _why Charles one-hundred percent believed that the best path towards complete recovery was never black-and-white, never the same old routine ordinary therapists used on all of their patients. That's why Charles Xavier, founder of _Charles Xavier's Institution for Troubled Individuals_, was the most successful therapist of all times, and also the most unorthodox. But exactly _how _unorthodox he actually was, the other therapists didn't need to know about that.

Erik glared at him for a while, but then raised his eyebrows in disbelief as realization started to dawn on him.

"What do you…?"

"Erik, you are not alone."

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><p><em>The characters' personalities might be a little different in this universe because I figured different circumstancesdifferent time period = different outcomes. But don't worry, they won't be too terribly different that they don't even seem like themselves anymore. They just might make a few decisions here and there that are contrary to what their Movie-verse characters might make, and so on..._


	2. My Friend

When Charles said "you are not alone," Erik supposed he meant, "Let's meet everyday in my office for as long as you live and I will try to make small talk with you as I jot down cynical observations and you become increasingly annoyed by me."

It had been weeks since their initial meeting, and Erik had big expectations, only to be let down. Charles seemed excited by something, but Erik must have been missing something, because to him it seemed like he was making absolutely no progress. Charles seemed to be at no unease at all over the fact that there was a dangerous man sitting right in front of him with no restraints and a glare that could burn through walls. He just kept up his jovial conversations, mostly one-sided, and continued to write things on that despicable clipboard of his that Erik so desperately wanted to take hold of and snap in half. He would laugh at the expression on his therapist's face.

"So, Erik, have you been noticing any improvements at all in our care?" Charles asked, oblivious to Erik's ponderings, although he did seem a bit perturbed by something unidentifiable.

Erik looked up at him; he was previously glaring at his hands, which were cupped in his lap.

"No."

"Have your sessions with the nurses been satisfactory? It says here that they say you are, 'distrustful, always on edge, and snaps at the slightest provocation.' Is this true?"

"No."

"Do you find your caretakers unsatisfactory? We could always replace them…"

"No."

"Do you need stronger medication? Are you feeling depressed at all?"

"No."

"Do you know any other words besides, 'No?'"

"No."

Charles sighed, placing his pen on his desk, neatly aligned with his clipboard and pressed the pads of his fingers against his eyelids.

"Erik, I want to help you, but you know I can't do that unless you cooperate, right?"

Erik jerked his head to the side, opting to glare at the floor right underneath the extensive bookshelf to his right rather than at Charles.

"Well, maybe I don't need your help. All you've been doing has been prying your nose where it doesn't belong. At the beginning, I thought we were going to get along. I thought, for a split second, that you might be different. But then I realized that I was wrong. You're no different from any other person I ever met."

"And how is that?"

"Condescending, hypocritical, and self-righteous."

"Excuse me?" Charles seemed insulted. "In what way am I hypocritical?"

"Just look at your desk!" Erik shouted, jumping out of his chair. "That's the neatest freaking desk I've ever seen in my entire life. You are so anal about _everything_. In the few weeks I've known you, I could clearly tell how obsessed you are about keeping everything neat. Hell, I could tell that in the first few _minutes_ that I met you by _how long it took you to put your clipboard on your desk_."

"I just like some organization in my life," Charles explained. "I hardly see how that compares to _attempted murder_."

These conversations were common. Charles and Erik got into fights a lot. Vaguely, Erik realized this wasn't what typical therapists and their patients did together, but in the heat of an argument he couldn't really focus on pondering that.

"I have seen you flip out over the tiniest little details," he accused."I don't 'flip out,'" Charles defended.

"Not outwardly, no, but you get that look in your eyes when something is off and your left eye starts twitching a little and your hands shake and you stutter a lot more all of a sudden. And you don't look people in the eye, and you point around at random objects while you talk. That's how I know when your stupid perfectionism is kicking in. You're so _OCD_, it's unnatural and it's getting in the way of you being able to function properly. It's honestly quite _sad_. So before you judge _me_ for _my_ issues, I _implore_ you… look at your own."

Charles looked taken aback. He blinked rapidly but said nothing.

"And you think _I'm_ the one who needs therapy," Erik finished under his breath.

"Very… very impressive, Erik," he heard Charles say and he looked up, noticing that the man was smiling slightly. "You're very observant."

"Yeah, well I haven't been seeing much of anyone besides you lately so it's kind of hard not to notice your patterns."

"I'm flattered by your concern over my well-being and your _detailed_ studies of my habits."

Now it was Erik's turn to be taken aback.

"Oh, no… no I didn't-I didn't mean it… _that_… way…"

Charles laughed. Like, _really_ laughed. He threw his head back and laughed and Erik stared at him, because he hadn't really seen the man truly happy in all the time he had been with him. Happiness suited him, he noted.

"Don't worry, my friend, that's not what I was implying."

_My friend._

Erik was confused. He was his therapist, not his friend. Why did he just call him his friend? Maybe it was just a formality. Someone couldn't be your therapist and your friend at the same time, could they? And besides, he hated Charles.

Didn't he?

"You over think."

"What?"

"You heard me," Charles answered cryptically, a light glinting in his eyes as his gaze penetrated Erik's soul. "You over think."

"What do you mean?"

Charles smiled, "Just by referring to you as my friend, your gears started turning and you automatically got defensive. You tried to think of every possibility that might have prompted the comment, how you felt about it, if you felt the same way… why can't you just let a nice comment be a nice comment?"

Erik growled. This was finally starting to sound more like a therapy session. He should learn to be careful what he wished for.

Instead of dignifying Charles' question with a response, he decided to retaliate with a question of his own.

"How did you know that was what I was thinking?"

Charles smiled again and tapped his temple with his pointer finger but said no more.

"That's not an answer," Erik said flatly.

"And neither was your question," Charles justified. "Answer mine and I'll answer yours."

Erik sighed childishly, "But I don't like self-examination."

"Exactly why I'm asking."

Erik narrowed his eyes at Charles and then glanced at the ground.

"I guess… because I never feel like people ever really say nice things about me. I just think that everyone hates me."

"Why is that?"

"Because… because when I was kidnapped, that… that man, Shaw, would always say nice things to me before he… before he hurt me."

Concern traced Charles' features and he sat up.

"The reports don't say anything about torture."

"That's because I never told anyone. I explained off every one of my injuries as self-infliction, and then I was admitted to therapy for years. I was so messed up, and my therapists were all afraid of me. All five of them. I kept having to get transferred because not only was I a danger to myself, but also to others."

"And so you have trust issues, because you think I'm going to be like them? You think I'm going to become afraid of you and send you off?"

"Why wouldn't you be afraid of me?" Erik asked and in a flash Charles was pinned to a wall, Erik hovering over him menacingly, breathing deeply. Charles squirmed but he didn't look away. He kept his steady gaze on Erik.

"I'm almost twice your size, I'm stronger, I could easily hurt you. And I have no qualms about hurting others, you know that from the stupid papers you've been reading about me." His hands tightened around Charles' arms and he let out a whimper.

"Erik, stop," he ordered firmly, though his voice was shaking slightly. "This is Shaw taking control of you. You are not violent, nor do you want to hurt me. Let me go before you do something stupid."

No, Erik decided he didn't want to do something stupid. And in a split second he realized he already was doing something stupid. He quickly released Charles, who fell to the floor in a fit of nerves, gasping as the adrenaline wore off.

"Why didn't you call someone?" Erik asked. "I know you carry an emergency button that sounds an alarm in case your patients get violent, why didn't you press it?"

"Because," Charles stood up, brushing himself off. "I _knew_ you weren't _really_ going to hurt me. I just needed to bring you back."

"And how could you possibly know that?" Erik asked, angry that Charles had put himself in danger, even though it was he who was the danger, and he wasn't really sure why.

"Because I'm a telepath."


	3. No Ordinary Therapist

_Why. Are. My. Chapters. Always. So. SHORT? -sobs-_

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><p>Erik most certainly wasn't expecting that. He tried to respond with some witty remark, like, 'Oh yeah? And I'm Batman.' But with his jaw hanging loosely off his face, it was difficult to make such a retort.<p>

"Erik? Do I need to repeat myself? I'm a telepath. And you can manipulate metal, I know that. In fact, I know quite a lot more about you than you think I know. Don't worry, I haven't pried. It's just the things you've let slip to the front of your mind during our chats. I can't help but hear those, sorry. And you, my friend, are very mean in your thoughts," Charles scolded.

Erik's mouth still hadn't started functioning properly yet, so he just stood there in awe trying to soak in what he just heard.

_I'm… I'm not the only one?_

"Of course you're not," Charles responded to his thoughts, making him jump. "There are plenty of us. Raven, my secretary? She's a shape-shifter. Hank, one of the strapping young men that brought you in here on the first day, who works in the lab for pharmaceuticals… he has hands for feet. Alex works in security, and he can shoot flames out of his chest. Darwin, his boss, can adapt to anything. Sean works at the front desk and he can make your ears bleed with his screams. Angel, our direct care aide, has wings. Need I go on?"

Erik shook his head, a look of incredulity plastered on his face. He pictured each face as Charles listed them, trying to imagine them as powerful beings. That blonde girl who was always making fun of Charles and making faces at him behind his back? The scrawny, young scientist with the goofy glasses and even goofier smile? The blonde teen who walked around like he was the shit and never liked to talk to anybody except his boss? The strong, dark-skinned security guard who always looked serious unless he was around his protégé? The ginger punk who got an elbow to the face the first day Erik arrived, and who was still wearing those nose patches because of it, the butt of everyone's jokes for weeks? The Hispanic girl who always looked around like she was above it all and was always sitting in corners reading fashion magazines rather than doing her job?

Erik tried to picture all of them as having great powers, as being like him and not ordinary faces in the crowd.

"Good," Charles smiled. "You see, this isn't any old institution. Oh no, the government may _think_ that's what it is, but in reality it's a foster home for misunderstood and mistreated mutants."

"Mutants?" Erik asked, finally finding his voice.

"Well, of course! That's what we all our, after all. Mutants, aberrations of nature, products of radiation… we have all been genetically mutated to obtain these brilliant powers of ours. It's fascinating, truly fascinating."Charles had a far off dreamy look in his eyes like he was about to go off on a tangent about this topic he was so very passionate about and Erik wasn't prepared for a five hour lecture about the human genome, so he quickly blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

"If you can read minds, have you been hearing the thoughts I've been having about you all this time?"

Directly after he said it, Erik cursed himself for saying it out loud, and cursed his mind because even if he hadn't said it out loud, Charles would have probably heard it anyways, and lastly cursed Charles, for giving him reason to think such thoughts in the first place.

True, he hated Charles probably up until this point, whereas he honestly just found him truly fascinating now. But even though he hated him, it didn't mean he was oblivious to how stunningly attractive the man was. It had dawned on him quite a few times during the last few weeks. Never really attached to any emotions, just an observation. But Erik was a man of pride, and he didn't want another man knowing he had acknowledged the blueness of his eyes, or the redness of his lips, or the softness of his hair…

It was just too emasculating.

Charles beamed and a tint of color dusted his face, like he was trying to suppress his own joy but could not. Erik took this as a 'yes' and groaned, plopping back into the chair and putting his hands over his face.

"Anyways," Charles coughed, changing the subject, which Erik was grateful for. "So yes, most of the patients that walk through these doors are mutants. We have a separate ward for ordinary humans; we can't get the government suspicious by being too choosy, but we do our best to filter as much as we can. However, the staff here is one-hundred percent mutant, except for one: Moira. But she is an old, trusted colleague of mine and she is very helpful keeping our cover story straight as well as dealing with the mutants, so she is here to stay. Most of our patients here are either criminals who, to the rest of the world, have committed inexplicable feats of evil. But as our staff is well aware, are actually scared and miserable mutants without a proper gauge on their powers. Some come here with no where else to go; their parents have kicked them out on the streets, thinking they are freaks, or they run away, thinking they have gone crazy. There are many reasons for them to come here, Erik. Society doesn't know how to handle us yet. But someday, it will."

Erik was inspired by the gleam in Charles' eye and how he seemed to truly believe what was coming out of his own mouth.

Erik wondered if what Charles said _could_ actually happen. It seemed like such a long shot. Erik thought he was alone all these years, no doubt there were hundreds, maybe thousands still out there who still thought the same. As admirable as Charles' work was, it couldn't save them all, and without proper knowledge, how could mutants ever become known without a riot breaking loose, let alone acceptance?

"I believe you have a long overdue story to tell me," Charles changed the subject suddenly, causing Erik to snap out of his reverie.

"What are you talking about?"

"I know that no one has believed you before, Erik, when you told them Emma Frost wasn't the real kidnapper, and Sebastian Shaw was. But I believe you. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but I believe for some reason Emma Frost _wanted _to be caught, and your real kidnapper is still out there, possibly harming more children. If that is so, it is my duty as your therapist to help you stop him."

"It is?"

"Well, technically speaking, no," Charles admitted, shrugging as if it were a minor detail. "But you heard me on the first day you arrived here."

Charles paused and brought his fingers up to his temple, a crooked smile on his lips. Erik stared in confusion until all of a sudden he was staring at an empty chair. He looked around in a panic, searching for Charles and when he looked back at the chair, Charles was seated again, leaning forward with his hands linked on his desk looking as smug as ever.

"I'm no ordinary therapist," Charles winked.

And Erik understood.


End file.
